Things started off well. We walked a ways with other pilgrims toward the stadium. We had packed our own dinner for consumption prior to passing through the security checkpoint. When we went looking for a bathroom, the unthinkable occurred. We found an omen. It was the writing on the wall...
As you might guess, my first thought was of a string quartet in the Chemistry building, playing some mad minor-key masterpiece while teenagers bounced from pre-Med classes to Young Republican meetings. Strangely, however, none of that materialized. Rather, we grew heartened to know that in a few minutes, this town would be righteously rocked.
We had decent seats, as you can likely tell. And the fact that the stage apparatus (nicknamed "the Claw") looked like my Crocs didn't hurt anything, either. Meg and I had been of a divided opinion regarding the opening act, Muse, prior to their taking the stage. Fortunately for me (because--let's face it--Meg is usually the right one), Muse took the stage in darkness to an orchestral score that evoked race-memories of Stalingrad and the non-ironic use of the word "menace." Then, they proceeded to execute one of their calling-card songs, "Knights of Cydonia."
Two words, my friends, two words: Devil horns.
Muse blew us away with their commitment to looking like greasy Brits and rocking like a sleazy maestro whose imperiled Dukedom exists only in the future. Also, if Queen and Depeche Mode has a love child, it would probably express its adolescent angst in the manner of Radiohead...Oops! I meant Muse.
After being jolted awake through our root chakras, we had to wait around for a while prior to the next phase of the evening. Fortunately, the skies conspired to produce wonderful hues.
With the house lights on, Bowie's "Space Oddity" began playing at an absurdly high volume. Much to our surprise, the teenage frat guys behind us knew every. single. word.
Then U2 graced us with their presence.
Unlike their recent disappointing appearance on Saturday Night Live (Bono confused being a singer with being a rambling talker, mistaking the television audience for the local barkeep), they were surprisingly good. Having seen them live a couple of times before, I knew that it could take a while for Bono and/or the crowd to get warmed up sufficiently to make the magic. Fortunately, it looked--and more importantly, sounded--like we had all done the requisite calisthenics from the get-go. It was a show that neither the audience nor the performers seemed to want to draw to a close, which, as you can imagine, was great.
As you might guess, my first thought was of a string quartet in the Chemistry building, playing some mad minor-key masterpiece while teenagers bounced from pre-Med classes to Young Republican meetings. Strangely, however, none of that materialized. Rather, we grew heartened to know that in a few minutes, this town would be righteously rocked.
We had decent seats, as you can likely tell. And the fact that the stage apparatus (nicknamed "the Claw") looked like my Crocs didn't hurt anything, either. Meg and I had been of a divided opinion regarding the opening act, Muse, prior to their taking the stage. Fortunately for me (because--let's face it--Meg is usually the right one), Muse took the stage in darkness to an orchestral score that evoked race-memories of Stalingrad and the non-ironic use of the word "menace." Then, they proceeded to execute one of their calling-card songs, "Knights of Cydonia."Two words, my friends, two words: Devil horns.
Muse blew us away with their commitment to looking like greasy Brits and rocking like a sleazy maestro whose imperiled Dukedom exists only in the future. Also, if Queen and Depeche Mode has a love child, it would probably express its adolescent angst in the manner of Radiohead...Oops! I meant Muse.
After being jolted awake through our root chakras, we had to wait around for a while prior to the next phase of the evening. Fortunately, the skies conspired to produce wonderful hues.
With the house lights on, Bowie's "Space Oddity" began playing at an absurdly high volume. Much to our surprise, the teenage frat guys behind us knew every. single. word.
Then U2 graced us with their presence.
Unlike their recent disappointing appearance on Saturday Night Live (Bono confused being a singer with being a rambling talker, mistaking the television audience for the local barkeep), they were surprisingly good. Having seen them live a couple of times before, I knew that it could take a while for Bono and/or the crowd to get warmed up sufficiently to make the magic. Fortunately, it looked--and more importantly, sounded--like we had all done the requisite calisthenics from the get-go. It was a show that neither the audience nor the performers seemed to want to draw to a close, which, as you can imagine, was great.
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Sounds as the real thing was even better than the real thing!
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed the concert. The "writing on the wall" might lead one to expect U2: Unplugged!
ReplyDelete